


I can lay my sabre down today

by but_seriously



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season Three AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 21:50:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4851716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/but_seriously/pseuds/but_seriously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a second. Two seconds.</p><p>Stretched out before her like a vast evergreen, sunlight winking through the leaves. She wonders if she’ll come back to this moment one day and think, <i>there it is.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I can lay my sabre down today

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theviolonist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theviolonist/gifts).



> Originally written and posted for Mathilde [here @ my tumblr](http://highgaarden.tumblr.com/post/85534334872/prompt-klauscaroline-703today-is-an-outside).

They meet in a forest.

She’s running from a pack of wolves; he’s trying to find them. It’s as though someone’s pulled these two seconds that their heels skid and their breaths burst, pulled these two infinitesimal seconds and stretches it out into an eternity that he’ll spend thinking about later.

The moon shines, the growls break. She trips over a root, he leaps over a trunk. She’ll forget him.

 

 

—

 

 

They meet in a chem lab.

He’s holding her boyfriend down, no - not just holding. Tyler’s skin breaks against shards of beakers and test tubes, and his face wouldn’t be covered in blood if he’d just been held down.

“Stop it,” she snarls. Her arms bruise in his sister’s grip, like everything Rebekah touches turns to rot. “You said you wouldn’t hurt him, stop.”

"Sweetheart,” he drawls, “I’m not hurting him. I’m reinventing him.”

He says this as he’s dangling a vial filled with Elena’s blood in Tyler’s face. Tyler’s bloody, bloody face.

“Ride or die, Tyler,” he says, eyebrows raised. And Tyler— Tyler takes the vial. He drinks. He rides, and in this film sequence, kids— he rides off into the sunset. And everyone knows she’ll burn there.

“No,” she chokes out.

 

 

—

 

 

They meet in a bedroom.

“We met on a night much like this,” he murmurs, looking out the window.

She laughs, she tastes blood. “No, we met when you and your bitch sister decided to invade senior prank night.”

He scowls, turning to her. “Are you not scared of me?”

“I’m dying,” she says. “Nothing can hurt me now.”

“I can bring you back,” he says fiercely, head bowed and eyes so bright he might be praying. To her. A strange, bleeding deity. A bound goddess, bound to this bed that smells of lavender fabric softener and werewolf venom.

But it makes sense. She is made of blood, if he were to worship anything it should surely be that.

He offers his wrist.

She takes everything, leaves nothing.

 

—

 

They meet in a ballroom.

It’s been so long, but his eye catches hers and suddenly she finds herself pulled towards him, like he’s casting a line and she is hook, line, and sinker.

“You’re still wearing the bracelet I gave you,” he points out. “After all these years. What’s your excuse for that?”

“No excuse. I just like pretty things,” she says. She leaves a red mark on the champagne flute; it looks like it’s smeared with blood.

He wouldn’t stop staring at her lips for the longest time.

 

—

 

They meet at a funeral.

“Hello, Caroline.”

“Here to celebrate the one human life you never managed to snatch?”

“Oh, don’t be like that. You look lovely.”

“Klaus, there is a dead person in this casket.”

 

—

 

They meet in a forest.

There is a second. Two seconds.

Stretched out before her like a vast evergreen, sunlight winking through the leaves. She wonders if she’ll come back to this moment one day and think,  _there it is_.

That big moment. You know the one—you get dizzy, you have to sit down, and then you think: this is it, this is the rest of my life.

It sort of pisses her off, you know?

Because Rebekah is here to say goodbye to Matt, and she’s here with _him_  instead of mourning the long, adventurous life her childhood best friend had. She’s still seventeen, and he has three grandchildren.

But the moment: his hand on her cheek, his lips on her forehead.

He says: “I’ll never come back.”

He says: “I promise.”

She couldn’t possibly have predicted that these two things would happen: that her heart would break, that she would fall in love.

 

—

 

They meet in Brooklyn.

He keeps walking.

She’ll forget him.

 

—

 

They meet quietly.

His glass of wine across the bar, her plate of olives in a circle around her.

He raises his glass. Ever so slightly.

 

—

 

They meet, and they keep meeting, and there is no way any of this could ever be a coincidence.

I mean, twenty years later and he just happens to be the captain of her London-Tokyo flight?

Come the fuck on.

 

 

—

 

 

They meet in a forest.

They always seem to be meeting in forests.

 _What’s a pretty girl like you doing in a place like this?_  he’d ask, if he were the type.

 _Waiting for you_ , she’d say, if she were anyone but herself.

When he kisses her, she’s ready. His mouth is filled with blood that is not his and she drinks it in, this offering; drinks him long and deep.

He still thinks her a bound goddess, still has the ridiculous notion that he should be the one to set her free.

She says: “Please, I am so not your god. No one should be under that kind of pressure.”

He’s watching her. Like he doesn’t believe her.

She is made of blood, you see. Blood and pretty hair and those two infinitesimal seconds that he’s placed onto his altar.

“How do I make you forget?” she sighs, fingers brushing his unruly curls.

“Be with me,” he says, voiced scratched. “Be with me and try.”

He falls to his knees, and she’s frowning a little worriedly until he pushes her skirt over her thighs. She’s never felt so much relief in him parting her legs and burying his face right there.

And if this — his tongue circling her clit, his fingers pushing into her inch by mercifully slow inch — is  _anything_  like being worshipped by him, then she supposes it couldn’t be so bad.

 


End file.
